


King's Bishop

by Keystoffees



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, The Hollow Crown - Fandom
Genre: Benedict's King Richard III, Blood, Cunnilingus, Dubious Consent, F/M, Menstrual blood, Menstruation, Pain, Pawn without plot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shakespeare's Richard III, The Hollow Crown, The Hollow Crown: The Wars of the Roses, Violent Sex, chess piece insertion, madness of Richard III, please don't read if these tags gross you out, so many chess puns, there's a phrase I never thought I'd use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:52:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7046185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keystoffees/pseuds/Keystoffees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Richard III has summoned his favourite companion, but she isn't sure he will want her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King's Bishop

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags if you are likely to be triggered and be aware this is probably not everyone's cup of tea. 
> 
> I have used the term 'mishape' to describe Richard from the OFC's point of view. This is not intended to upset or offend anyone and is a term used in Shakespeare's original. 
> 
> If you've got this far, I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> This is a sort of follow on from the King's Toy, featuring the same, nameless courtier. But it can also be read alone. 
> 
> Set in the small dark chamber, after Richard III has ordered the deaths of the princes in the tower and refused Buckingham his estate.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap.

Taptap taptap taptap taptap taptap taptaptap…

I knock once and wait, listening to the thrumming from behind the door, which at first forms a rhythm with my racing heart, then falls out of time.

I am used to this, of course. I have been his companion for many years, but I have never once been able to put a stop to the feelings of trepidation just before I enter his room when he has called for me. Today, I feel especially anxious because it is my time - my menses - and I do not know what mood will take him when he finds out.

I have learnt, these past few years, to take good care of myself after I see the King. He has assisted, of sorts, in money and material comforts. For a short period I entertained a relationship with a kind soul who would embrace me with such affection I wondered briefly if my time with Gloucester had reached a conclusion. But, like the continuum of the changing seasons, cruel winter sucks the life from autumn’s remaining warmth and I find myself drawn back to the King’s harsh words and even harsher deeds.

I hear him mumbling something and then he calls for me to enter.

King Richard sits, perched with his good leg bent underneath his chair, body leaning forward towards the stone, Ivory and marble chess board atop the small wooden table. The room is dark. There are no windows to offer respite from the damp stone walls of this chamber, save for a sky light high in the ceiling. It casts an angular prism of bright light that illuminates only the King himself and his beloved chess board. The pieces stand to attention, waiting for his next move as he controls their fate in a game that never ends. He looks pleased with himself for a moment, before he glances sharply over his shoulder and then up at me as I walk into the room and close the door silently behind me.

I try to ignore the faint madness in his eyes.

“I am not in the giving vein today,” he murmurs to himself, his chuckles fading abruptly before he gestures for me to come closer.

“Your Majesty, I have come to satisfy you...but I am limited. I did protest when I received your order but I was bid to come anyway, somewhat against my wishes,” I begin to explain, fully aware he will not be impressed at my reasoning.

“You mean to refuse me, today?” he asks, incredulous.

“Sire, I don't refuse you... entirely,” I say, and as I stand over him, I reach a tentative hand down towards the crotch of his breeches. His cock responds immediately with a small twitch.

“Mmmmmm,” he growls low in his throat and taps on the marble chess board again slowly. The sound bounces around the small chamber, echoing off the walls and filling my head with its insistence.

The King grabs me around the waist with his large hand and sits me down on the edge of the square table, shifting me across slightly so that I have to spread my legs to place one either side of his body. My gown ruffles and pools in a crumpled mess in his lap.

He stares down at me and, painstakingly slowly, he begins to lift the layers of fabric. “And why do you insist on this… refusal, pray tell?”

“I am bleeding, Sire, my menses is upon me and I know from the last occasion that you are not minded to take your pleasure with me at such a time,” I say bluntly.

“Hmph,” King Richard responds to my admission, his fingers freezing momentarily. I watch as his face changes, and a strange, feral look passes through his eyes while he sits beneath me, clawing slowly at my dress to find my bare skin. I gulp in reaction as I start to realise.

The young girl who became this man’s plaything would never have understood, but I have watched him grow, hideously, from a teased and bullied mishape into a bloodlusting, desperate tyrant. His desire to rid himself of anything and anyone who has mocked or who stands in his way has lead him to despise all other humans and I have wondered for some time quite how much pleasure he harnesses from the spillage of blood he has often ordered. The growing bulge in his trousers suggests my suspicions are to be confirmed and his depravity, sunk even further.

He takes a long, languid lick of his lips and reaches his intended goal; my bare legs quiver slightly at this gentle touch. His fingers crawl up towards my thighs. The increased blood flowing in my body makes my arousal quick and intense and I know that alongside the menstrual blood there is a growing wetness like no other man can elicit in me.

I have on many an occasion suffered a not-entirely-welcome dampness in my undergarments, wrought from me by a single solitary stare from the King across a crowded courtyard. His eyes can tell a thousand stories and stir excitement and arousal; whether it is wanted, or not, it is always intended.

Right now, his eyes are far away, somewhere else entirely while his fingers curl around my inner thigh and grasp me tightly. He applies pressure, spreading my legs further apart and reaches in deeper towards the bloody rag that lies in my undergarments. The tips of his fingers breach the confines of the material briefly and he draws his hand back slowly, leaving a scarlet trail over my leg. He brings his hand to his mouth and runs his fingers across his lips, raising his once beautiful eyes to my face.

Suddenly, he is unstoppable; an animal who has caught the scent of blood. He pulls my legs, inching me forward on the table so that he can reach the space between them. He uses both his hands to reach under my skirt and pull the cloth rag out with such force that it flies across the room and hits the damp stone wall behind him. He raises himself from his chair and balances his crooked body against my right leg. Once stable, he leans down and traces the smear of blood with his tongue, licking the inside of my thigh, inching agonisingly towards my core.

I start to protest in small, uncertain gasps and realise it is futile. It is pointless to even try to stop King Richard from getting what he wants, and his desire at this moment is my blood. I’ve long since abandoned my attempts to understand this man and his wicked desires.

He uses his strong hand to lift the layers of material and uses his weaker arm to hold it there while he buries his head between my legs. As soon as he makes contact with the pooling fluids there, he makes a deep visceral groan in the back of his throat and I feel him open his mouth as wide as he can and plunge his tongue deep in my cunt.

The feeling is like no other; I have never had a man use his mouth on me while I am bleeding before and the sensation is somehow…it is greater, more intense. Richard seems to know, and he laps up the blood and evidence of my arousal, flattening his tongue against my clit and then moving his head from side to side to allow him to fully explore the soft and welcoming space between my soaked thighs.

I am moaning along with his grunts, watching as his hips make small thrusts and the erection held tight inside his breeches strains against the material. I hold onto the short, thick hair on his head and his crown which shakes with his efforts, and I'm desperate for his tongue to stay in one place and help me focus on my pleasure.

But I am mistaken in my hopes; Richard quickly leans back, scraping his stubbled face along my thigh in an attempt to wipe his mouth. He rears back, chin down close to his chest and the same wild expression on his face. The entire bottom half of his face and chin is covered in my blood; it glistens around his mouth and is smeared across his angular cheekbone towards his left ear. It is disgusting and glorious at once and I start to pant, begging him to return to what he was doing.

He leans down and lifts up my dress, pulling out the folds and wiping his face roughly with it. The gown will probably not be salvageable after this, I think, momentarily distracted.

Richard’s face looms closer to mine and he places a light kiss to my lips. I can smell the metallic residue of my blood, which lingers on his stained skin. I clamp my lips tightly closed but he doesn't notice. His arm reaches around to behind me and he grins evilly, so close our noses are touching. Slowly he shows me; one of his precious chess pieces. Carved from pale Ivory, the bishop is, I realise with growing horror and a small shiver which descends down my back, incredibly phallic.

Richard’s grin doesn't waver while he takes the chess piece he has just shown me and inserts it into my cunt. It is deliciously different at first; a vile contrast to the warmth and relative gentleness of his tongue. The piece is cold, hard and rough where it is detailed and it begins to hurt as he slowly fucks me with it. The menace in his eyes deepens as he picks up his pace and I cry out, at first in pleasure, next in pain. His breathing is rapid and comes in ragged breaths and snorts. I shout for him to stop.

He must hear me. Or, he hears something else entirely, because at that moment he pulls the piece out and away and tosses it violently on the floor. It lies there in the semi-darkness, red spotted and glistening, a symbol of his lust for power and for blood. He spins around and shouts at the wall, or maybe an invisible being, a vision seen only by him, driven by his insanity. He stares for a second at whatever spectre has caught his attention, as I sit perched on the table, a bloody mess with my stained dress around my waist. He grasps my leg for stability as he curses and spits his anger, before turning back to me.

I don't think he even sees me any longer.

His expression has become almost vacant, his eyes, which usually flash (even if it is only with the insanity, into which, I am now convinced he is entrenched) appear duller. He twitches, his face distorted with whatever force is distracting him.

He begins to unlace his trousers to free his cock which is still hard. He pulls sharply on the leather, snapping one of the laces right off. He shrugs his breeches down with his hand and takes his cock in it, fixing me with those pale eyes. His crown is crooked on his head, a metaphor for what he has become.

I let him take me.

Sitting astride the table, a bloody chess piece discarded on the floor and my bottom inching up against the chess board upon which thirty one pieces remain in place to fight Richard’s personal war. He sheathes his cock in me over and over and grunts himself hoarse, mumbling incoherent obscenities and other musings I neither hear nor understand.

The fingers of his good hand find their way to me again and I am comforted to a very small degree by the insistency with which he still wants to make sure I can find pleasure. He has always taken his own sex exactly how he has wished, but his climax will usually be after mine; I have rarely walked away from my King unsatisfied. He rubs his thumb in circles around my swollen and bloody clitoris. I cannot fight it and before long I curl my fingers, sinking my nails into the back of the king’s neck, not caring if I draw regal blood.

Thrust after thrust rocks me and finally, violently, the King comes. I can feel it, hot and insistent inside me. He collapses on top of me, still inside me and sobbing. I wait for the pulsing to subside and help him stand as straight as he can.

I look down at the mess of material, blood and the evidence of our copulation. King Richard is already muttering about Richmond and keeps glancing behind him towards the wall he so clearly fears. I wait for my legs to stop shaking and stand, knocking over some remaining chess pieces as I do.

The black King, I notice as I walk slowly past on my way out of the chamber, lies alone.

I never see King Richard alive again.


End file.
